This Isn't a Love Song, This Isn't a Fable
by rayrae118
Summary: ... or, the one where everything's all right, until it's not. Steve's not OK with people's perception of Captain America, no matter what he says or how much he pretends otherwise. It's like no one in this time period realizes that there's more to him than a spangly outfit. And yes, he's including the Avengers in that. Not AoU compliant.


**This is my first foray into the world of Avengers fanfiction, so I hope I do it right! I actually came up with the title first, and then spent over a month trying to find a universe I could write it in. So here we are!**

 **Expect some discrepancies in the universe. This starts out pre-Avengers, and covers to post Winter Soldier, but is not Age of Ultron compliant. And I did change a few minor details, mainly in how the other Avengers treat Steve. Because I love me some hurt Steve/brooding Steve/not all right with the 21** **st** **century Steve. Enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own The Avengers, as much as I wish otherwise.**

There's a lot about this century that still confuses Steve. Not having to worry about polio, for example. How does one go about eradicating an illness, anyway? And the Internet. Honestly, why do so many people feel the need to post videos of cats? And what's with this whole Twitter thing? Has the world changed so much that people actually care what a middle-aged high school science teacher had for breakfast? Or that Sk8erboy33 bought a Coke Zero at the gas station on his way to the park this afternoon?

Steve does all he can to catch up, keeping lists whenever someone gives him another idea or suggestion, and he's slowly working his way through it. Star Wars was awesome. Star Trek was a little less so, but he feels like he had probably watched those in the wrong order – after seeing the visual masterpiece of George Lucas, watching the older space franchise television series just hadn't been quite as breathtaking. Though that reboot movie that had come out a couple years ago had been pretty cool.

One of the strangest parts of this century, to Steve at least, is the way the Internet tells him to deal with grief. Seriously, this Kübler-Ross dame must not have had too much experience with the emotion herself. Why would anyone think that everyone deals with it the same way? A model about the five stages? What the fuck is wrong with this world?

He would have just clicked away from the page and ignored it, but then he gets it from a SHIELD issued psychologist as well – he may have accidentally thrown a desk across the room when the man mentioned a timeframe for moving from denial to anger. He wasn't in denial. He knew exactly what had happened, where he was now, and that all of his family and friends were dead. And while he hated it, he wasn't the kind of guy to live in the past. So what was the point in denying anything?

Steve refused to go back to that idiot's office after that one disastrous appointment. And no one had forced him either, so he put it out of his mind and focused on himself. Nights spent in the gym, days spent pouring over mission briefs, pilfered from the archive rooms at SHIELD headquarters. Day after day, he read the file on the mission that had led to the capture of Zola and Bucky's death. He read the file on his own supposed death. He read about the status of the Commandos. They were all gone, after living full lives and leaving behind a legacy to be proud of.

Dum Dum had eight children, and twenty-two grandchildren. He had died less than a year ago.

Gabe had married a French woman that Steve vaguely remembered from one of their missions a few months before he had gone down in the Arctic. They had stayed in Europe after the war.

Morita had gone back to California and settled down with a high school sweetheart. They had one son, named Steve, and after reading that, Steve had to take a break to make sure he didn't start bawling his eyes out all over these stolen reports.

Falsworth and Dernier's files were much lighter, both having joined their countries' versions of Intelligence. It was interesting for Steve to note, however, that both had worked frequently with SHIELD before their retirements.

It wasn't until after the New York debacle that Steve managed to build up the courage to read Peggy's file.

That had been a strange day; being pulled back into duty to save the world once more, meeting Howard's son and the rest of the ragtag group Fury seemed to be calling the Avengers, dealing with actual honest-to-god aliens invading the Earth from a hole in the sky. And then once it was all over and all he wanted to do was drag himself back to his apartment in Brooklyn and hide out for the next day or week until his wounds healed, being forced by Stark to go to a Shawarma restaurant. _Team bonding_ he had called it. Steve just wanted to go to bed, and excused himself as soon as was possible without seeming rude, assuring the rest that he was fine, and he'd see them all later, before beating a hasty retreat.

It took far longer than he would have liked to get home, because all forms of public transportation had come to a grinding halt, so he had had to walk. And God damn it, that did nothing to help the four broken ribs and the hole in his abdomen. He was fairly certain his ACL was torn in his right knee as well, but he just kept going, telling himself he could collapse as soon as he got home and there were no witnesses.

And he did. He pretty much made it over the threshold and passed out for a solid twelve hours. He still felt like crap when he woke up, but at least he could move again.

His sleek new SHIELD-issued phone was blinking at him, telling him he had several missed calls, but he ignored it in favor of food, before settling himself down on the couch with the unassuming brown folder that he hadn't been able to look at in the three weeks since he had borrowed ( _stolen_ ) it.

She had married about ten years after his death. He seemed like a nice guy, from the words on the paper, but Steve still hated him. He clamped down on those feelings and forced himself to continue reading, learning about how Peggy had helped to found SHIELD, her husband's death seven years ago, her daughter who now worked as a doctor in Chicago, and her current living situation, at a nursing home in Washington DC.

Steve moved on from there, reaching out for folders on SHIELD's formation, passing the hours unknowingly as he soaked up any and all knowledge of his friends' lives – Howard and Peggy had worked together to found the intelligence organization, and he was desperate for any information he could get. He had never felt so homesick.

But this was his home now. He had died, and somehow come back to life in a new time. It was still New York, but not his New York. Everything had changed, and he had missed it.

Steve didn't even realize how long he had been sitting on his decrepit couch – bought at a flea market, most likely so cheap because of how uncomfortable it was – until the sound of the door nearly flying off its hinges drew him out of his near-trance.

He looked up, startled, and then frowned at the sight of Tony Stark standing in his doorway.

Behind the tech genius, Barton, Romanoff, Banner, and Thor all stood, peering over Stark's shoulders with apparent concern.

Steve raised an eyebrow. "Is everything all right?" he asked cautiously, wondering what the hell they were doing here.

Tony frowned, pushing his way inside, the others following suit. "I know you're not used to technology, Cap, but it is actually acceptable to answer your phone every now and then. In fact, it's actually encouraged."

Steve furrowed his brow, straightening up and reaching over to grab his cell phone, wincing slightly as he saw the eighty-nine missed calls. Most of them seemed to be from Tony and Bruce – likely because Tony had thought he might just be ignoring his calls, and insisted Doctor Banner try as well – but he saw Fury's name there too, and knew that SHIELD was probably wondering where the hell he was.

"Sorry," he said contritely, setting the phone down and standing up. "Can I get you something to drink?"

When he didn't hear a response, he turned in confusion, to find them all staring at him with varying degrees of horror. "What's wrong?"

Glancing around, he saw that they were focused not on his face, but his chest. He had ditched his uniform for a comfortable pair of sweats as soon as he had woken up after passing out – a day ago? He wasn't sure how much time had passed since they had saved New York. But he hadn't put a shirt on, leaving his top half bare to avoid aggravating the injuries while they healed.

Examining the wounds now, he saw that the bruises were still there, looking several weeks old as they worked through the healing process. The area that had taken the brunt of that alien weapon's blast was dark and burnt, with several reddish threads leading away from it. All in all, he looked like crap.

"Jesus Christ, Cap, why didn't you get that checked out?" Stark asked incredulously. He thought he had been bad, after launching a nuke through a hole in the sky and falling back to Earth. But _holy crap_.

Steve shrugged, padding softly towards the bedroom to grab a sweatshirt. He tugged it on as he reappeared, the movement mussing his hair and making him look even younger. "It'll heal soon."

"Doesn't it hurt?" Bruce asked hesitantly.

Steve glanced away, shrugging again. "I'm fine," he assured them. "I'm sorry for not answering your calls. I was busy."

"I can see that," Stark looked over at the spread of files on the coffee table and floor. All of them were marked with SHIELD's logo. "Light reading?"

Steve thankfully managed to hold in his flinch, especially after seeing the way Tony seemed to focus on the one file that was open. Howard Stark's face stared up from the black and white picture, mocking or comforting, depending on how you looked at it.

Steve immediately started tidying up, closing that folder first and setting the mess in an organized pile on the coffee table. Once that was done, he straightened and looked at the group still standing there awkwardly. "Just trying to catch up," he said by way of explanation, hoping no one questioned him. He didn't have the mental fortitude to deal with an inquisition right now.

At the very least, it looked like Bruce wanted to say something, and Tony appeared to be visibly biting his tongue, but fortunately, they managed to contain themselves.

Tony dropped unceremoniously onto the couch, and then let out a muffled yelp, standing up quickly. "Damn it, Cap, that can't be good for your back. Seriously, don't they pay you enough to be able to afford decent furniture?"

Steve rolled his eyes, leaning against the back of the couch as he folded his arms across his chest, giving the – younger? Older? Technically, he was older, but if you took out the seventy years in the ice, Tony was actually older than him – giving the other man a disappointed look that Tony would never admit to actually working. "It's my apartment, I can furnish it however I like."

He wouldn't say that the uncomfortable couch reminded him of the war, of having to make due with whatever accommodations were available. He remembered Howard complaining frequently, but Bucky would just shoot the millionaire a sour look, and Stark would shut up. Howard had always enjoyed comfort, and the military barracks and tents just hadn't compared to his life of luxury. But the rest of them had been more used to using whatever was there, especially those who had come from America – Dum Dum, Gabe, Morita, himself, and Bucky – as the Depression had hit all of them pretty hard.

Steve sometimes actually chose to sleep on the couch, rather than his bed, finding the bed too comfortable.

The others squirmed uncomfortably, until Tony made the offer. "You know, you could always move into the tower. I'm already working on renovations, and I've got a whole idea to turn each floor into a separate apartment. Everybody gets one! Come on, Cap, Banner already agreed, and I've almost won over the wonder twins," he ignored the glare Romanoff was throwing at him, which Steve thought was probably a mistake. He knew how to recognize a dangerous woman, and Natasha reminded him of Peggy in a lot of ways – not that he'd ever tell her that. She probably wouldn't care or understand.

Steve shook his head slightly. "I'm happy here, Tony. But thanks for the offer." He looked over at his phone once more, seeing it light up with an incoming message. A text? That was the shortened name, right? "I need to check in with SHIELD, before Fury sends out a search party. I'll talk to you later, all right?"

Tony didn't seem happy, but he shrugged and offered up a "See you later, Cap," before leaving the apartment.

The others said their goodbyes as well. Bruce smiled softly at him, his unassuming voice belying the monster within. "Don't be a stranger, Captain," he said quietly. "We'd love to have you visit whenever you want."

When he left, Romanoff followed with a stilted nod and a brusque "Cap," before she too disappeared.

Thor had no compunctions about striding forward and grasping Steve's hand jovially. "Captain, it was an honor to fight beside a brave warrior such as yourself. I will be returning to Asgard soon, but I look forward to the day our paths cross once more." He turned sharply on his heel and left.

Clint was the last one to depart, and he seemed awfully uncertain for the steady archer Steve had seen fighting diligently to protect their blind side in the battle of New York.

After a moment of silence, Clint bit his lip and sighed wearily. "Thanks, Cap, for everything."

Steve frowned, confused. "For what?"

Clint shrugged. "You didn't have to let me fight with you, the other day. After everything that happened, I wouldn't have expected it. So thanks for trusting me. I'll see you around."

He was gone before Steve could form a reply.

 **XXX**

And that was how it started.

Steve forced his life into a daily routine of work, gym, work, gym, occasionally sleep, eat when he remembered, more work, more gym.

Because that was who he was now. Cap. Captain. Star Spangled Man With A Plan. There was no Steve anymore. Not even his teammates in the Avengers called him by his name.

Steve hadn't realized how much that hurt him until they had showed up at his door, as if they cared about him, the man. But not one of them used his name. It was like Steve Rogers didn't exist in this time period. Steve Rogers had gone down in the ice in 1944, and Captain America had woken up in 2012. No one seemed to need him, the man, anymore. They just wanted the superhero.

Steve missed the old days. Sure, the war hadn't exactly been fun, but at least the Howling Commandos had called him by his name. He missed Dum Dum turning to him at least once every mission brief and telling him, "Steve, you're a crazy sonuvabitch. Did that serum take out your sense of self-preservation?"

And then Bucky would shut him up with a light slap upside the head. "Steve's always been crazy, Dugan. The serum had nothing to do with it."

Here, mission briefs were completed with upmost professionalism. The Strike Team would never question him. Nor would they insult his lineage or call him an asshole or a punk the way Bucky did at least ten times before they even completed the objectives of the assignment.

Steve would sometimes go days without hearing his own name. After a while, he got used to it. This was his life now, and there was no sense in complaining.

He couldn't keep living in the past. And if those files concerning his old life stayed piled neatly on the coffee table, well, it was his apartment, he could do what he pleased with it. No one at SHIELD had asked about the missing reports, so he had to assume they hadn't found out, or they didn't care.

He oddly found himself thinking about those five stages of grief more and more frequently as the months passed. He still thought it was crazy, the way people seemed to model everyone's grief to follow the same five stages, but he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. Not one of those stages told him how to deal with willingly sacrificing his life to save the world, only to wake up nearly seventy years in the future to a world that hadn't stopped, just because he had died.

None of those stages told him how to deal with losing his entire life in the blink of an eye. His friends, they were his family. His parents had died years before he had become Captain America, and the Howling Commandos had been like brothers. Before them, it had been him and Bucky against the world. And after, the two had willingly made room for more. Their unit had functioned seamlessly during the war, because they were always able to predict what the others were going to do next, and knew instinctively where help was needed.

Those stages don't talk about losing your family so abruptly without any of them knowing that you're still alive. They don't talk about how it feels to read a report of their lives in cold, dispassionate words, black and white pages in a file stashed in a box and forgotten about until Steve brought them to the light once more. Knowing that if things had only played out differently, you could have been a part of those lives.

Those stages don't talk about how it can shatter you. And then you have to go on living with all the broken pieces.

 _Work, gym, work, gym_. A dozen more punching bags lost to the nightmares of the past.

Another two weeks without hearing his own name. Cap. Captain. Once, Fury called him Rogers, and Steve thought that was almost good enough.

He participates in missions, pretends to enjoy the weekly dinners Stark forces him to attend, and he only gives in because he does enjoy the company of the other Avengers, despite their seeming inability to realize that he does in fact have a name.

Clint seems to have really warmed up to him, and Steve didn't realize how huge a thing it was, to trust the man despite him being brainwashed by Loki and unwillingly killing a bunch of people just hours earlier. It's not like it was Barton's fault, but Clint still seems to feel like he owes Steve something.

And Romanoff seems grateful to him because he trusted Clint so unconditionally. Honestly, it wasn't like that. He had trusted Natasha's judgment, and if she said that Clint could be trusted, then Steve believed that.

Thor was gone, back to Asgard, and none of them had heard from him since his departure.

Bruce and Tony seem to have a serious bromance going on – Steve had read about that word, and how it was used to describe a very close relationship between two male friends who were not romantically involved. Sometimes they got caught up talking science and seemed to forget that other people were in the room, but Steve didn't mind.

Well, he told himself he didn't mind. He was happy that they had a good friendship, and that they each had someone to talk to.

He didn't need anyone. He didn't need a friend to talk to about the trauma of losing his entire life in one fell swoop. He didn't need to talk about the nightmares that still plagued him, how he could only count on a couple hours of sleep every few days, if he was lucky, or how it was a really good thing he was so enhanced, or he would have dropped dead from sheer exhaustion months ago.

He told himself he was fine. It didn't matter to him that he sometimes forgot his own name, because there was no one here who used it anymore. It didn't matter that he spent most of his nights in the gym in the basement of his apartment, that he only really left the building when he had to report to SHIELD, or when there was a mission. Or when he remembered that he had to eat something, and there was nothing in his fridge.

He had almost convinced himself.

And then Bucky returned.

* * *

It didn't come crumbling down right away.

Sure, seeing his face on that street in DC had been startling. So startling that he hadn't put up a fight when Rumlow arrested him, and they got shoved into that van on their way to certain execution.

But for a while afterwards, he was still all right. Sort of. They saved the day, Bucky saved him, and he went back to his apartment in Brooklyn, giving up the bullet-riddled one in DC that he had only really rented at the behest of SHIELD so that he could be closer to HQ in case they needed him. He so wasn't getting his security deposit back.

He didn't really like DC anyway. Too much politics. Too many liars.

Sam followed him to New York, taking one look at the blankets and sheets covering the couch and demanding that Steve give him the bed, as if it was a huge concession that Steve would have to make, rather than a relief to not have to explain why he slept on the couch.

Steve was grateful.

Sam was better at using his name every now and then, somehow managing to understand more than any of the Avengers. Maybe because they had both served? But it still startled him, the first time Sam had called out from the kitchen, "Hey, Steve, I'm making an omelet, you want one?"

Steve had stopped dead in his tracks, not moving until Sam reappeared, carton of eggs in one hand, to repeat the question. He had played it off with a shrug and a nod of thanks, and that had been it.

But he was sure Sam was cataloging all his idiosyncrasies.

They only stayed in New York for a few days, just long enough for Steve to heal completely, before they were off, chasing down leads and searching for clues on Bucky's whereabouts.

Steve supposed he probably should have checked in with all the Avengers before he and Sam left, but he hadn't been thinking too clearly at the time. He had destroyed his SHIELD-issued cell phone before checking the messages, and thrown the pieces into the Hudson the day before they started their search. SHIELD wasn't real anyway.

Steve paid a random kid to buy him and Sam burner phones before they hopped a plane to Europe, and figured that if Stark really wanted to, he'd get the number.

Dead end after dead end, until they finally caught up with him in the Alps. A short distance away from where Bucky had fallen back in 1944, actually. Steve wondered if his old friend was trying to remember the past as much as Steve was trying to forget.

It wasn't completely a success, but Bucky was coming back with them, and he hadn't tried to kill anyone yet, so Steve counted it a win.

He wondered how much Bucky remembered, how much he would have to fill in. How much he had managed to shed the HYDRA programming.

The three of them camped out in Steve's one-bedroom apartment for a week before anyone seemed to realize they were back.

Clint was the first one to stop by, and bonded with Bucky more than either of them probably realized, both being snipers. Natasha came with Clint the next day, and didn't exactly seem thrilled to be breathing the same air as the Winter Soldier, but didn't try to kill him either. And Bucky didn't react to her rather open hostility, thankfully.

Bruce and Tony came by as well, and after seeing the three of them inhabiting the small space, Tony began once more pushing for Steve to join them at Stark Tower, which he was saying would be rechristened Avengers Tower.

Steve didn't agree, but he didn't completely disagree either, and he knew that Tony would take that small victory and run with it, wearing him down until he gave in.

Throughout all these visits, Bucky continued to watch observantly, studying the Avengers with keen and calculating eyes, watching them interact with his friend and the other guy who had found him. It wasn't all back yet, but even when everything else went to hell, he remembered Steve. A phantom protector in the back of his mind that disappeared whenever he tried to get a closer look at the punk.

He remembered more now. It was coming back slowly: the nights they had spent shivering together in the dead of winter, huddled close for warmth because they hadn't had enough money to pay the heating bill that month. He remembered Steve defying orders and charging into Azzano to rescue him and nearly four hundred other POWs. He remembered fighting side by side with Steve in the war, and he remembered feeling completely turned around when it was now Steve who looked out for him, rather than the other way around. God, it was weird to see his ninety-pound-when-wet asthmatic best friend turn into a healthy muscled superhero with the strength of ten men.

He didn't remember much about falling off the train in the Alps, but he did know that it wasn't nearly as much Steve's fault as the man seemed to believe.

He was happy that Steve seemed to have a good group of friends here, though it was bittersweet to see them interact, and not be a part of it.

What wasn't good was how much he could see Steve role-playing. He knew when the man was acting, and when he was showing his 'Captain America' face. Why would he pretend with these people? Weren't they friends?

It wasn't until a few weeks of visits, and lots of evaluation, before Bucky finally broke his silence. He had spoken a little with Clint, but never when one of the other Avengers – other than Steve – was in the room. In fact, when the Avengers stopped by, he more than likely wouldn't say anything until they left, simply observing them carefully, as if watching for them to do anything that might hurt Steve, ready to act at a moment's notice.

Three weeks after their return to New York, Bucky finally had enough. What was with these people? Didn't they realize what they were doing?

"He has a name, you know," the assassin blurted out, cutting Stark off mid-sentence, right as he tried to make another plea for 'Cap' to move into the Tower.

They all looked at him in surprise, but Bucky just continued to glare, ignoring Steve's shaking head and Sam's knowing look. Sam was the only one he had ever heard use Steve's name, and that endeared the paratrooper to Bucky more than the man would likely ever know.

After a minute of stunned silence, Clint leaned forward slightly. "We know that," he said, confused.

Bucky looked at him disgustedly. "Maybe you should try using it every once in a while," he sneered, standing up and sweeping his glare across the room once more. "Three weeks, and not one of you has called him anything other than Cap. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Steve grimaced, making his way to his friend's side. "Bucky," he placated, but Bucky just shook his head, suddenly softer as his glare turned to concern.

"Shit, Steve, it's not right. Does anyone actually think of you as a human being here? Does anyone actually care enough to make sure you're eating, or sleeping, or having a life? You might be all enhanced and shit, but I know what you look like when you've gone ten days with less than an hour of sleep."

Steve spared a quick glance for the group of people all sprawled around his living room, hiding his wince that they had to be having this conversation in public, before he shook his head. "You don't have to worry about me, Bucky. I'm fine."

"Bullshit," the assassin replied succinctly. "My memory might not be the best right now, but I still know how to tell when you're lying. Stop being an ass."

Steve rolled his eyes. "I never claimed to not be an ass, Bucky. Remember, it's part of my charm. But let's not forget that you are too."

Bucky punched him lightly on the arm, making sure to use the real limb, not the metal one. "I know I am, punk. Don't change the subject."

"Fuck you," Steve retorted shortly. When that didn't work, he sighed slightly, shaking his head. "Seriously, Buck, stop being a dick. I'm fine. Trust me."

"You know I do," Bucky pleaded, his voice suddenly much quieter. "But it's not right. You shouldn't have to pretend all the time."

The Avengers seemed to be paying even closer attention now, watching intently and wondering what the hell had just happened.

Steve rolled his eyes again, pulling away, to Bucky's chagrin. "The world doesn't need Steve Rogers, Bucky. The world doesn't care about him." He didn't wait for a response, and disappeared into his bedroom, the door closing swiftly behind him, echoing piercingly in the silent living room.

"What the hell?" Tony asked incredulously, staring at the closed door with alarm.

Bucky glared at him, the heat returning full force now that Steve wasn't there to temper his reaction. "What, you actually care? Have you ever actually used his name?"

Tony was about to say yes, of course he had, when he stopped suddenly, his genius brain thinking back to every interaction over the last few years since they had met. Ruefully, he realized that he couldn't come up with one instance where he had called the man Steve.

Judging from the looks most of the rest of them were wearing, they were having similar realizations.

Sam bit his lip as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he propped his chin up with on hand. "I remember staying here for a few days before we headed to Europe, a few months ago," he admitted quietly, grimacing as they all turned to look at him. "All I did was call out his name and ask if he wanted an omelet. You should have seen the look of shock on his face. Like he couldn't believe someone actually knew there was a man behind the Captain. I told him a while back that he should take some time off and just be Steve, and he said that he wasn't even sure who that was anymore." He looked around at the group, his expression suddenly disapproving. "It's amazing, the desensitizing one can endure. I doubt anyone at SHIELD ever called him anything other than Captain. Taking away someone's name like that… it makes you feel less than human. It's no wonder he doesn't feel like anything other than the superhero the world labeled him."

Clint made to stand up and head towards Steve's bedroom, but Bucky stopped him, his harsh voice carrying across the well-deserved guilt that settled over the rest of the group. "He's not in there."

Clint frowned. "He just went in," he argued, opening the door and looking around.

But sure enough, it was empty. The window was open, and Clint could see a fire escape outside, providing an easy exit.

Bucky snorted derisively. "Steve always has an escape route," he explained scathingly. "Every room has a way out, according to him. Even if he has to use his stupid shield to create it. Ass."

Clint wasn't sure if the assassin was talking about him or Steve with that last word.

Tony leaned forward, interested. "Are we not going to address the amount of swearing Ca – _Steve_ ," he amended himself quickly when Bucky glared at him, "just let slide? And did he actually swear too? What the hell?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "You do remember that he was in a war?" he said disparagingly. "Soldiers as a rule have dirty mouths. You should have heard Dugan in the foxhole. Steve said Dernier was just as bad, but he and Gabe were the only others who spoke French, so we had to take their word for it."

"Steve speaks French?" Natasha asked curiously. She was quickly starting to realize how little she knew about the man who had been a steady presence in her life for so long now.

Bucky rolled his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. "French, German, Russian, Japanese, Spanish, idiot even learned Farsi when we were kids. No idea why, probably because he was bored." Seeing their shock, Bucky just felt even more hatred for their actions. "Punk was smart before the serum, and that cocktail of steroids only enhanced his abilities. What was it Erskine told him? Good becomes great, bad becomes worse. I'd be the first to admit the idiot has a dark side, but everything he does is always in defense of someone else. That's why he needs people to look after him, because he doesn't think to do it himself. I hate you all." He gave them one last loathing look before disappearing through Steve's bedroom to the fire escape.

They watched as he climbed outside and went – _up_.

"Shit," Clint said, summing up the entire situation in one word.

"Well I feel pretty horrible," Bruce added, grimacing in self-disgust. He felt like he of all people should have understood, and maybe not fallen into the same pattern as the others. Didn't he know what it was like to have people look at him and only see one thing? How much did he hate it when people only saw the Hulk, and not Bruce Banner?

"He should have said something," Tony commented idly, picking up his cell phone and typing furiously, though none of them were sure who he was contacting. Pepper, maybe. Or maybe it was just distraction from an uncomfortable situation.

"He shouldn't have had to," Sam shot back furiously. "I've only known the guy a few months, and even I know that he wouldn't call you out on it. The rest of the world didn't help, but you're supposed to be his friends. You're supposed to not care about the alter ego, and don't think I haven't noticed the same thing Barnes did. Sometimes I wonder if Steve forgets he has a real name to answer to. It wouldn't surprise me."

Tony glared at the paratrooper, throwing his phone down on the couch. "You think I don't realize that? No need to rub salt in the wounds, Wilson. But he's Captain America! The world's first superhero! The guy my old man never shut up about."

"Howard Stark never shut up about him because he knew the man behind the mask," Natasha commented quietly, causing them to all turn towards her. She shrugged. "Howard Stark knew Steve, the man who ran headfirst into enemy territory just to rescue his best friend, because no one else would do it. The man who wasn't afraid to put the alter ego on and lead the world to freedom, but took it off at night and joked around with his friends over drinks. Howard Stark saw the good man that must have been there even before the serum, but I think he probably also saw the flaws that made Steve human. That's the part that got lost over time after Steve went down in the ice. People built him up as a superhero, and forgot that behind the mask, he's just a man."

Sam nodded approvingly, though the others looked a little nonplussed that she apparently knew so much about it. Natasha rolled her eyes. "You think I haven't read through all those files Steve pretends he didn't actually steal from SHIELD? I've read more of Howard Stark's memos than I care to admit. He idolized Steve, but he also counted him one of his best friends. You know how hard it is for Steve to look at you, Tony?" she changed the subject abruptly, focusing on the tech genius intently.

Tony frowned, feeling like he should be insulted, but not entirely positive.

Natasha grimaced, picking an imaginary piece of lint off her sweater. "Barnes is right that he's pretty good at hiding, but I'm better at reading people. He feels uncomfortable around you, because you're a link to a past he's still not over. He went down in 1944, thinking that that was it. He would never see his friends again. Or that girl I'm sure he was in love with. But then he wakes up almost seventy years later, and not only are all his friends dead, but here's this son of a man he never even had a chance to say goodbye to. I know Howard wasn't exactly father of the year material, but he had to have been a decent man at one point, if Steve cared about him that much. And I know he did."

She reached over and thumbed through the pile of files on the coffee table, pulling out one after a few minutes, flipping it open to show Tony the picture that lay inside.

It was a simple candid shot, neither of the men in the frame seeming to realize that they were being photographed. They were leaning against a table, something like a map spread out in front of them. Steve was hunched over slightly, his arms supporting most of his weight as he leaned on the table. Howard stood next to him, closer than any of the Avengers had seen Steve comfortable with, but the Captain looked utterly content. Howard had one arm on the table holding himself up, and the other was resting on Steve's shoulder. He seemed to be leaning against Steve more than the actual table.

Tony raised an eyebrow at the picture, having never seen it before. He wondered if there were any more shots in these files. Howard hadn't really liked to talk much about his friendship with Steve when Tony was growing up – mostly it was about how amazing Steve was, and how Tony would never match that. So while he had known that the two had worked together, he hadn't really been aware of how close they had been.

Natasha seemingly wasn't done. She rifled through a few more files, and pulled out other photographs. One shot had all the Howling Commandos together. Another showed Steve and Bucky wrestling with each other as Dugan and Morita cheered on. A shot of Steve and Peggy, standing entirely too close to be platonic, seemingly more interested in looking at each other than that report that was spread out in front of them. One of Colonel Phillips and Steve discussing strategy. Several more photos of Steve and Howard. Even one that seemed to be Steve trying to teach Howard how to throw a right hook.

In every shot, they could see Steve's expression: happy, content, relaxed. It was shocking, because they had never seen him look like that here.

Natasha shook her head. "We all screwed up," she said disparagingly. "I include myself in that, because I know I sure as hell never called him Steve. I never came over just to make sure he wasn't spending too much time living inside his own head. Hell, I think the only time I ever saw him over the last year before SHIELD fell was for missions. And it kills me that I didn't even realize what I was doing. From what Barnes said, he doesn't sleep much, and I can't tell. I don't know how to distinguish between when he's actually well rested, and when he's just playing the hero. I don't know what his favorite foods are, or what his parents' names were. How many simple details did we just ignore, thinking that he was fine with being the leader and nothing else?"

"Lasagna." They looked at Sam when he spoke, surprised. Sam shrugged. "He said his mother used to make it, when they had enough money to afford the ingredients. Her name was Sarah, by the way. She died of TB when he was fourteen. His father's name was Joseph, he died in World War I before Steve was born. But Steve's favorite food is lasagna. Apparently, Sarah Rogers made the best in all of Brooklyn."

They all continued to stare incredulously, and Sam shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at the attention. "It's kind of amazing what he'll tell you, if you just ask." He shrugged again. "If you're really interested, he'll take you on a driving tour of all the places in New York he got beat up. Apparently, there are too many for it to be a walking tour."

"So you just… asked." Tony seemed unable to wrap his head around the idea that the stoic Star Spangled Man With A Plan would just… tell them.

Sam nodded exasperatedly. "He was allergic to peanuts, shellfish, strawberries, and bee stings, before the serum. He and Bucky lived together before they enlisted, because neither one could afford rent on their own. Bucky's parents took him in after his mother died. They met when they were five, because Steve stood up for some girl who was being picked on, and the bullies turned on him, so Bucky stepped in. Steve was planning on going to art school, before the war. You should see some of his sketches, they're actually really good."

Seeing that they were all still staring at him in disbelief, Sam rolled his eyes. "Seriously, all you have to do is ask. If he felt comfortable around you, he'd be more willing to share. But you still don't see him as a real person. He's always been a superhero to you, the first superhero. And I totally get it; I won't deny that I had a very real fanboy moment when I opened up the door one morning to find Captain America on my front step asking for _my_ help. Even if he never did follow through on my offer to stop by the VA and score me points with the receptionist."

He shook his head, but his smile made it clear he was just joking. "I think it's hard sometimes to separate the two, because it's almost like the role was designed specifically for him. He's the epitome of truth and justice and all that's right with the world. He's all about fairness, and honesty, and integrity, and it's too easy to forget about the rest of it. But where Captain America is firmly fighting for his nation, Steve Rogers isn't blind to its faults. You do remember what he did to SHIELD, right?" He didn't wait for a response. "Maybe it's time to stop looking for Captain America, and start paying attention to Steve Rogers."

"You think they'll be back soon?" Clint asked, glancing back to the bedroom, and the open window that had provided both Steve and Bucky with a way out.

Sam shrugged. "If I had to hazard a guess, they're probably both on the roof right now, waiting for all of us to leave. Though, considering I don't actually have anywhere else to go, I'm hoping they're not including me in that."

He had barely finished speaking when there was suddenly a mad dash for the fire escape. Clint was the first one out, followed quickly by Natasha, and then Bruce and Tony. Sam sighed and followed the group, hoping their eagerness wouldn't result in someone taking a nosedive from five stories up.

When they reached the roof, it was to find that Sam's estimate had been right. Steve and Bucky were on the far side, looking out at the brightly lit lights of Manhattan. The view from the roof showed the entire skyline; as far as location went, Steve really knew how to pick a place.

It was obvious that the duo had noticed the moment they were no longer alone, because they both straightened slightly, pulling apart and putting several inches of space between them. It wasn't entirely obvious who had been comforting whom. Bucky was propped against the railing with one arm flung over as his left side took most of his weight, while Steve was leaning on the railing, his arms folded horizontally on the top bar as his chest pressed into it. His gaze was focused on the skyline in the distance.

They hesitantly made their way over, arranging themselves around the duo, no one taking the initiative to break the silence.

After a few minutes, Clint finally cleared his throat awkwardly. "We're sorry, Steve. We didn't realize what we were doing, not that it's any excuse."

Steve nodded slightly, but none of them felt absolved. It seemed more like he was just trying to keep the peace, the way he always was. Steve Rogers was their rock. Whenever any of them had any sort of shit going on, Steve was just there, strong and steady to lean on, to prop them up, and to push them forward.

How many punches had he just let roll off him, in order to keep that peace? How many times had he acted as Tony's verbal punching bag and never responded? How many times had he allowed Natasha to let off steam by kicking his ass in the ring? Or lend a rather confused ear as Bruce puzzled out some science conundrum?

"Don't sell yourself short, Steve," Tony leaned against the railing, as he crossed his arms across his chest. "We fucked up." He paused briefly, and then went on, though not without having to hide his almost-shock at the lack of reaction to the foul language. "It shouldn't have gotten this far. We should have noticed, and you should have felt like you could say something. That's on us. Just because you're so good at being the hero doesn't mean you have to give up the things that make you human." He sighed resignedly, hating that he had to get all touchy feely, but if this was what Steve needed, he'd suck it up. "What we're trying and failing to say here, Steve, is that you do matter. You're a pretty great guy, and we're sorry for making you feel like you're not… oh god this is going to sound so stupid…" he grimaced. "We're sorry for making you feel like you're not… important, or special."

Steve shrugged lightly, his gaze still focused on the skyline in the distance. "Maybe it's true," he said simply, his voice devoid of emotion. "It all came out of a bottle, after all."

Tony flinched, remembering that really crappy day on the helicarrier, over a year ago, when he had insulted Steve. Sure, Loki's scepter had played a role, but he wouldn't deny that some of what he had said had had some root in a lifetime of resentment that his old man had cared more for a dead superhero than his own son. "Shit, Steve, don't read into that, please. I didn't mean it."

Steve just shrugged again. "You were right, Tony. They could have picked anyone."

"But they picked you because you were perfect," Bucky shoved him gently, rolling his eyes when Steve didn't react. "The role was pretty much created for you, punk, so stop being all self-deprecating. Modesty never looks as good as it sounds."

Steve shoved him back, throwing the assassin a soft glare, but the lack of heat told everyone he wasn't really annoyed.

Tony really didn't like feeling guilty. Had his words affected Steve so much that he was still thinking about them several years later?

"Please tell me you haven't been letting Stark's assholeness bother you all this time," Clint said hopefully. "Tony's a jerk who doesn't know how to think before he speaks." He glared at the billionaire when the man yelped indignantly. "You know you are, Stark. Shut up."

Steve smiled minutely, but they weren't masters of their craft for nothing, so they all caught it, and felt slightly better for the small hint of levity. "Don't feel too proud of yourself for getting inside Captain America's head, Tony," he warned, and their good moods vanished at the words, showing that Steve still didn't quite believe them in their apology. "I have an eidetic memory. Had it before the serum, and I still have it. Couldn't forget the words in any case. I also remember what I had for breakfast the day I flew that plane into the ice. Doesn't mean it matters."

"Wow, did Captain America just insinuate that Iron Man doesn't matter?" Sam joked lightly, causing Tony to glare and Steve to throw him one of those mysterious 'you'll never know what I'm really thinking' looks that had startled the paratrooper into realizing that the old man did actually have a sense of humor.

After a moment of silence, Steve sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he rested his chin on his arms. "I'm not angry," he assured them. "You really don't have to feel guilty."

"Yes we do," Natasha growled, glaring at him and his apparent lack of self-worth. "You're not supposed to be the superhero all the time. You are allowed to take the mask off, and we forgot that. Damn it, Steve, you shouldn't have to pretend that it doesn't hurt, or that you don't care that no one remembers that there is a human being inside that uniform."

Steve bit his lip thoughtfully, hearing what they were saying, but unable to really unravel all the emotions that he had tied up and stuffed in the back of his mind so that he would no longer react to the disappointment every time someone called him Cap or Captain, rather than Steve.

Bucky reached over and rested a hand lightly on his upper arm, not pushing, just offering comfort.

After another minute, Steve grimaced and shrugged, the movement awkward as he was still slumped over the railing. "Eight weeks three days," he said abruptly, glancing sideways at Bucky and offering up a reassuring smile. When no one responded, he sighed. "That's the longest I've gone without hearing my name," he elaborated, to their shock. "And it was only broken because I went to the Smithsonian and spent a few hours wandering through the Captain America exhibit. It's fine."

"Shut up," Bucky said lowly, gripping his arm tightly. "It's not, so stop lying."

Steve winced slightly, but didn't contradict his friend. He shook his head tiredly. "No use complaining," he said quietly. "It is what it is, and this world needs Captain America more than they need the kid from Brooklyn who was too stupid to run away from a fight."

"But what about what I need?" Bucky countered, pleading. "That scrawny ass kid has saved me more times than I can count. I never followed Captain America into battle, remember? I was always one step behind the punk from Brooklyn. And the rest of the Commandos would tell you the same thing, doesn't matter that they didn't know you before the serum. They followed Steve. We could have cared less about _Captain America_." His voice was derisive and mocking as he spat out the name of Steve's alter ego.

"They're dead, Buck," Steve shot back. "All of them, but Peggy. And most days, she still thinks it's the 1940's. They're not here, so it doesn't really matter what they thought."

"You don't mean that." Bucky's voice was quiet and certain, and after a moment, the fight went out of Steve and he nodded minutely. Bucky smiled slightly and leaned forward, resting his chin on Steve's shoulder. "I miss 'em too."

Steve snorted quietly. "Did you know Morita named his son after me?" He shook his head disbelievingly, like he couldn't understand impacting someone's life so much that they would give their kid his name.

Tony let out a quiet chuckle. "My dad wanted to do that with me," he informed the super soldier. When Steve looked at him, startled, he shrugged. "My mom said Peggy talked him out of it. Something about dying a little bit more each time she would come over and hear the name Steve. I didn't really get it at the time, I mean I might be a genius, but I was only five when she told me this."

Steve almost managed to contain his flinch. "No offense, but I'm really glad Howard changed his mind," he told the billionaire.

Tony nodded slightly. "Me, too. Not that I don't like the name or anything, but it would be really weird."

Steve's head jerk indicated that he understood Tony's line of thought. It would be very awkward for them to have to work together, if Tony had been named after the dead hero best friend of his father's, who wasn't actually dead. Like a waste of a tribute or something.

"Look, we can't apologize enough for dropping the ball on this," Clint pressed forward, wanting to do anything to get back the Steve Rogers they had seen in those photos downstairs. The man who wasn't afraid to joke and have fun with friends. He had thought that they got along fine, and he really liked the man, but he had never seen Steve smile like he had in those pictures. "But we would like to try again. And Stark if you start pushing for him to move in, I will shoot you," he glared at Tony who promptly shut his mouth contritely. Clint smirked. "You don't have to join the insanity that comes from living with Tony. But we'd like to hang out more, if you want. Sam mentioned something about a driving tour of the places you got beat up? I think I'd like to see that."

Steve glared at Sam, who just smiled in response. Bucky snorted. "It's a driving tour because there's too many of them to walk to, right? Do you have a weekend free? You'll need it if you're going to hit them all. Maybe three days, if you rush. Better to stretch it out to four."

Steve jerked his shoulder, dislodging Bucky's hand, and transferred his glare to his best friend. Bucky grinned unrelentingly. "You know it's true, Steve, don't look at me like that."

Steve shook his head resignedly, muttering something about trading in for a new best friend.

The others watched, smiling, at the interaction. It was so obvious, now, how much Steve had kept to himself with the rest of them. They had thought he was fine, but now they could tell just how uncomfortable he had been. With Bucky, it was like he was allowed to just be Steve, and he had embraced that concept wholeheartedly.

Bucky just smirked knowingly, feeling more at ease than he had since Steve and Wilson had found him in the Alps weeks ago. Things weren't the same, but damn it felt good to joke around with Steve like they used to.

After another minute of silence, Steve let out a quiet sigh and shook his head minutely. "I knew what I was doing when I agreed to be a part of the Project: Rebirth," he said stoically, ignoring the way they all seemed to bristle at the words. "I knew people would no longer be interested in me as a person. I didn't sign up for this because I wanted to become famous. I just wanted to make a difference, and as long as I was doing that, the rest didn't matter."

"And now?" Clint asked cautiously. When they looked at him, he grimaced, his expression pained and full of empathy for Steve. "You're talking in the past tense," he elaborated. "You said that you _knew_ , and it _didn't_ matter."

Steve shrugged, looking down at the ten story drop that lay on the other side of the railing he was leaning against. "America sees the mask, the man who fights for his country and never doubts that what they're doing is right. Maybe back then, I was more on board with playing up to those generalizations. But the world's gotten even more screwed up, and I'm not willing to compromise my own beliefs just to pacify the sheep that never stop to ask themselves _why_."

"Wow, don't hold back, Steve, tell us how you really feel," Sam was grinning, though the rest of the group looked suitably shocked to see Captain America speaking so cynically. But Sam had seen a glimpse of this man while they had been taking down SHIELD, and he rather liked it.

Steve let out a soft snort and glanced at Sam, smiling lightly. "If people had actually pulled their head out of their asses long enough to get a view of the sky, maybe things with SHIELD wouldn't have gotten so bad," he shot back, justifying his views. And he was right, they all knew it.

"Feeling bitter there, Spangles?" Tony asked, his own grin conveying his approval.

Steve rolled his eyes. "Maybe I don't like the fact that I died for nothing."

That sobered the mood. It was true, after all. Steve had willingly sacrificed his life to put an end to HYDRA. And to find out that the organization not only survived, but that the intelligence unit that had been created to ensure nothing like it ever happened again was in fact, the enemy, had to have been a tough blow.

Bucky pressed comfortingly into his side, and the others unconsciously took half a step forward, wanting to help however they could.

"Whatever happens next, we stick together," Bruce said quietly, his expression upset though his voice was calm and collected. "We've been screwing up until now, but we're a team. We all should have been there when you were taking down SHIELD, and we should have noticed what we were doing before Barnes had to shove it in our faces. You're a good guy, Steve, and you're a great leader. You always shove your own feelings aside because you think it's for the greater good, but you don't have to do that with us. We trust you to lead, and we'll follow, but we do want you to feel comfortable telling us when we're being asses."

Steve smiled slightly and nodded gratefully at the doctor. Bruce's steady calm had a way of reassuring the Captain without even trying.

Natasha pushed her way to the railing on Steve's other side, and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Никогда не перестать быть вам , Стив," she said, a slight smirk making its presence known through her voice. ( _Don't ever stop being you, Steve_.)

Steve looked up sharply, and then glared at Bucky. "I liked it when she had no idea I knew what she was saying," he said, annoyed.

Bucky just grinned, and Natasha cuffed him lightly, before retracting her hand. "Du hast hielt uns." ( _You've been holding out on us_.)

Steve rolled his eyes. "Stop it," he complained.

Natasha's grin now matched Bucky's. "من هرگز اجازه رفتن به این زندگی شما را پایین" ( _I'm never going to let you live this down_.)

Steve raised an eyebrow. "kutomba wewe." ( _Fuck you_.)

Natasha leaned back, surprised. "When the hell did you learn Swahili?"

Clint looked at her. "You know Swahili?" He had followed most of Natasha's language changes, though he didn't speak Farsi fluently, so he wasn't completely sure what she had said there. He also knew all of the languages Natasha spoke, but Swahili hadn't been one of the ones on his list.

Natasha shrugged. "Not really," she elaborated. "But I do know how to swear in most languages. You have a dirty mouth, Captain."

It was odd, now, to hear his stage name; when Tony called him Spangles a few minutes ago, Natasha right now… Something had changed this evening, and they were now using it more as a term of endearment, and less because he wasn't a real person to them.

Steve smiled, shrugging self-deprecatingly. "I've had a lot of time on my hands. I wouldn't call myself fluent, but I thought it might help, in case I ever found myself in that corner of the world."

"Any other languages you've picked up over the last couple years?" Clint asked curiously. He and Natasha had always thought of themselves as the translators if they ever ended up in a situation where no one spoke English, just because between the two of them, they could get by in most situations. But it'd be nice to know that someone else on the team could help out.

Steve didn't answer the question, just gave the archer a mysterious smirk and a wink.

Natasha smiled happily, pleased to see Steve enjoying himself, and even opening up a little. Maybe in time, they could get him to share the way Sam said he would. All they had to do was ask, right? And maybe make sure that he understood that they did actually care about his answers.

The group lapsed back into silence, though it was a comfortable quiet. For perhaps the first time since waking up, Steve felt truly content, secure in the knowledge that, while they weren't family like the Commandos had been family, perhaps in time, they would get there. He believed them when they promised to correct their mistakes, and he hoped that he would soon stop feeling like an intruder in the 21st century. He did not regret becoming Captain America, but he knew that the Avengers understood the difference between the man and the costume, now.

The rest of the world might never see him as anything other than a hero, but at least here, with this small group, he was a person.

And that was all Steve could ask for.

 _Ok, this was like the story that wouldn't end! Hope you like, and please review to let me know what you think!_

 _I know Thor kind of disappeared for most of it, but he went off to Asgard, and I just couldn't bring him back at all. This is before Age of Ultron, so I guess in my mind, he hasn't returned to start tracking down Loki's scepter yet._

 _I put translations for the other languages right in the story, but in case anyone was wondering, the first was Russian, then German, then Farsi, then Swahili. I hope they're right, I used Google Translate, so I wouldn't be surprised if they were off. I apologize if that's the case, other than six years of French back in middle/high school nearly a decade ago, I don't speak any other languages, so this was the best I could do._


End file.
